


Asset Retrieval

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Darkest Timeline, M/M, RvB Angst War, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 14:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11163702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: Angst War Prompt! - Instead of imploding by itself, PFL survives until Chairman Hargrove’s investigation brings all its secrets to light. Hargrove offers some of the Freelancers a deal; in return for getting them out of prison, they’ll do whatever dirty work he needs doing, no questions asked.Wash is sent to retrieve the AI unit Delta. It doesn't go as he planned.





	Asset Retrieval

Hargrove eyes the young man slumped in the chair in front of him, the dark hair buzzed short, the bruise-colored shadows under dark eyes, the raw knuckles on hands bound by metal cuffs. The lean, sallow cheeks, the grimness of the mouth. In the polished warmth of Hargrove’s office, his orange jumpsuit is particularly incongruous. “So,” says Hargrove, folding his hands in front of him and leaning back in his chair. “Agent Washington.” He places the slightest stress on the word _agent._

Washington looks up from under his brows at Hargrove. “What?” he rasps.

“You might want to watch your tone with me, Agent,” says Hargrove. One of the things that’s always irked him about Project Freelancer – no proper sense of decorum or hierarchy. “I do quite literally hold your future in my hands.”

Washington’s eyes flick down to the datapad Hargrove is holding, with all the details of his conviction and sentencing, and back up at Hargrove. “Yes, sir.”

“Better.” Hargrove lets him sit and stew under scrutiny for a moment longer before tapping the datapad and continuing, “According to this, you’re going to be in prison for the next twenty-four years.”

Washington’s fists clench, knuckles going white. “Yes, sir.”

“Hmm, well, that’s an awfully long time. Do you think your mother will even be alive by the time you’re out?”

Washington’s face darkens and tightens, wrists straining in the cuffs as he shifts in his chair. But whatever curses are clearly on his tongue, he doesn’t utter, which pleases Hargrove. Self-restraint is a virtue. He continues, “There may be a way for me to commute your sentence, or even remove it entirely.”

There is the briefest flash of hope on Washington’s face before suspicion replaces it. “In exchange for what, sir?”

“Your services.”

Eyes narrowed, Washington asks, “Doing what?”

Delicately, Hargrove clears his throat. “There are certain actions that must be taken for the success of Charon Industries, but which I cannot _officially_ make happen. You understand?”

Washington’s upper lip curls. “You want me to do your dirty work.”

“Yes.” Hargrove sees no point in denying it.

“I’m not doing it.”

Honestly, he was expecting a denial; he would have been much more surprised if Washington said yes. “Very well,” says Hargrove, and presses a button on his desk to call the guards back in. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind in the future.”

The look Washington gives him as he is escorted out of the room plainly states his doubt that will happen. But Hargrove is unconcerned. He knows how to play the long game.

\--

There is a fresh bruise on Washington’s cheek, and he holds his weight gingerly in the chair, as if careful of broken ribs. “So,” says Hargrove, hands folded on the desk in front of him. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

Washington spits onto the desk.

Well, thinks Hargrove, there’s no need to be disgusting. “Take him away.”

\--

Washington sits back with a thousand-yard stare, hands hanging limply from manacles that no longer fit quite as snugly. Hargrove doesn’t know what they did to him outside of solitary confinement; he doesn’t much care. Break him and bring him to me, were the only instructions he gave.

“Yes,” croaks Washington.

“Yes, what?”

“I’ll do it.”

Smiling is not an expression that comes easy to Hargrove, but he allows the corners of his mouth to turn up a little. “Very well, Agent Washington. We’ll start simple. Asset retrieval.”

\--

“I’m very pleased by your work so far, Agent Washington,” says Hargrove. “Very pleased indeed.”

Over the past few months, Washington has regained some of the weight he’s lost, a product of rigorous physical exercise and two high-calorie, high-protein meals a day. He’s broader across the shoulders now, a new hard cast to his jaw, eyes locked away behind several doors. The changes are only accentuated by the severe black of his TAC gear. “Thank you, sir.”

Hargrove slides a datapad over to Washington. “Your next assignment.”

He’s curious to see if Washington will react to the name at the top of the pad, but nothing stirs in Washington’s face. “Yes, sir.”

“I want the AI particularly, and the armor as well.” Hargrove straightens an errant stylus on his desk. “The presence of Agent New York himself is… optional.”

Washington regards him, emotionless. “Yes, sir.”

“During previous unsuccessful attempts to retrieve the assets, Agent New York indicated he would rather die than be separated from his AI. You may very well have to kill him. Are you prepared for that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hargrove sits back, regarding Washington thoughtfully. He’s done a great many difficult things over the years, but this might be one of his quieter triumphs – transforming a man into a weapon. “Very well. Dismissed.”

\--

Finding Agent York isn’t the problem. It was never really going to be. Wash comes across him in Voi, on the street, and the way his heart leaps at the sight of a familiar figure makes his stomach sink with dread.

“Agent York,” says Wash, quietly, so he doesn’t seem like a threat.

York whips around, gun at the ready, his armor filthy and scuffed. When he sees Wash, his shoulders sag in relief. “Wash!” he says, holstering his pistol, and strides forward. “Holy shit, man, it’s so good to see you –”

Wash lets York pull him into a hug, unsure and stiff; York is so obviously glad to see him that it twists Wash’s stomach painfully. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe it,” says York, holding Wash out at arm’s length to look him over. “How are you? How’s your head?”

The scars Epsilon left are still there, as gaping black as ever. “Fine.”

York looks over his shoulder at passerby, a movement that’s almost a nervous twitch. “We should get off the street. Come on, I have a place.”

\--

His “place” is an abandoned gas station, in an area of town that might terrify less desperate men. Wash follows York into the darkened room, empty except for a couple of broken shelves and York’s meager possessions piled in a corner. There’s a sleeping bag on the floor. “Welcome to my humble abode,” says York, arms outspread. With a self-deprecating chuckle, he turns around to face Wash. “Make yourself at home.”

Reaching up, York pulls his helmet off. He’s changed as much as Wash has, and not for the better – his hair is longer, ragged, cheekbones knife sharp, jaw unshaven. The calm assurance of his Freelancer days are gone; instead he seems jittery, glancing around at every little sound.

Wash removes his own helmet as well; if he can keep York relaxed, his guard down, it will make his job that much easier. York’s good eye travels over Wash, taking in details of his gear, his expression. “You sure you’re doing all right?” York asks.

Wash shrugs. “I’m surviving.”

“Fuck, aren’t we all,” sighs York, and sits down heavily on the sleeping bag. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I wanted to find you. I just… I don’t know.” Wash gestures helplessly. “I don’t have anything. Or anyone else.”

York chuckles wearily, eyes half-closed. “That’s sweet. D says hi, by the way.”

“Hello, Delta,” says Wash stiffly. He’s too tense, too awkward, and he’s sure York can see it, but what else is he supposed to do? Part of him howls in distress that this is York, his _friend,_ and Wash pushes it deep down inside. “Have you been on the run this entire time?

“Yeah,” says York, and a stricken look crosses his face. “I’m sorry I never went back for you, I wanted to, I did, but they had you locked up in some max-security –”

“I know, I was there,” says Wash bluntly, but he joins York on the sleeping bag. “It’s all right.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” He used to be angry, long ago. But he’s accepted now that the only person who can rescue him is himself. “I know it’s shitty for you too.”

“Damn straight,” sighs York, tipping his head back against the wall. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any cigarettes, would you…?”

Wash shakes his head.

“S’okay. I didn’t think so. D won’t let me smoke, anyway.”

They sit in silence, together. Wash’s mind goes back to York hugging him, that impulsive, friendly action. The first non-hostile touch he’s endured in… God, in years, it feels like.

Wash wants more, and he hates himself for it. He hates himself for what he’s about to do, and knows he’ll do it anyway.

Carefully, he leans against York, bumping their shoulders together. “It’s good to see you,” says Wash, haltingly.

With a heavy sigh York closes his eyes, tipping his head against Wash’s. “You too, man.”

Hargrove will want to know about the other agents. “Have you seen any of the others?”

“I’ve run with Tex a bit, on and off.” York sighs again. “But no one else. And not even her, for a long while. I’ve just been on the run. Can’t stay anywhere too long, or with anyone.”

“I haven’t seen anyone, either.” The weight of York’s shoulder against his is comforting, grounding, in a way that fills Wash with despair. “Just you.”

Eyes closed, York lets out an exhale that might almost be a groan, and drops his head to Wash’s shoulder. For a moment Wash stays frozen, and then instinct gets the better of him and he rests his cheek on York’s greasy hair.

York makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and is now fully leaning on Wash, almost curled in towards him. Outside cars roll by, occasional passerby shout, the sounds of a city at night, but inside there is only the quiet sounds of York and Wash’s breathing.

Carefully, finger by finger, Wash pulls off his gloves, setting them down next to him. When those are off, Wash swallows hard, and reaches for York’s hand.

There’s a slight catch of breath as Wash wraps his fingers around York’s. “Didn’t know you felt this way, Washie,” says York, tone carefully light.

Wash removes York’s gloves, revealing hands more scarred than he remembers, and settles on telling at least part of the truth. “I missed you.”

“Yeah?”  

“…Yeah.”

York winds his fingers through Wash’s, holding his hand. “Been a long time, huh?”

Centuries, it feels like. “Really long time.” His voice comes out throatier than he intended.

“Mm.” York drags his thumbnail over Wash’s palm, and something clenches in his abdomen in response.

“York…” says Wash, turning to look at him, and with his free hand York seizes Wash’s face and pulls him into a frantic, openmouthed kiss.

It’s awkward and clumsy with armor in the way and Wash could not give less of a damn; York’s hands are hot on his face, his tongue, his lips, his stubble scratching Wash’s cheeks. Wash is seized with what feels like three years’ worth of longing for something, anything, all aching at once.

“Fuck,” says York suddenly, pulling back, good eye wide. “Was that – was that too much, I didn’t mean – sorry –”

It takes Wash a second to find his voice. “No, no, it’s all right –” and on impulse he puts a hand to York’s face, stroking a finger over the raised scars.

York closes his eyes and leans his head into Wash’s hand with an expression of surrender so absolute it looks almost pained. This can’t be the first time he’s been touched, thinks Wash desperately. York loves people, he would never go this long without…

With his other hand, Wash fumbles at the catches of York’s breastplate. After a couple unsuccessful attempts York takes over, snapping off pieces of armor while Wash caresses his face with both hands now. When Wash leans in to kiss York again, York moves on to his armor as well.

“Sorry,” murmurs York, in a brief space between kisses. “It’s been a while since I had a bath…”

Wash doesn’t mind. He feels filthy enough as it is.

Armor comes clattering off, breastplates, pauldrons, greaves, and the undersuit is hot and constricting around Wash’s throat and he unzips it, stripping it off to the hips. York wraps an arm around Wash’s waist, pulling him in close so he can press blistering kisses to the side of Wash’s neck, down to his collarbone. Overwhelmed, Wash yanks York’s undersuit off his shoulders, hands sliding over a lean and hungry frame, over fresh and old scars.

“Wash,” groans York, tugging him onto his lap, straining up to kiss him sloppy and openmouthed. Wash lets him, every bit as desperate, each bit of contact between his skin and York’s sinking in deep to his core. It’s too good, Wash wants to cry, York catching his bottom lip between his teeth, he doesn’t want it to stop, maybe afterwards, when York is sated and asleep… “Wash, God, don’t stop –”

York pulls Wash in even tighter, so Wash’s hands are trapped between their chests, sucks a mark on Wash’s neck that makes him groan and tilt his head back –

There’s a soft _shnick_ , as of a knife being drawn, and a cold metal point is pressed into Wash’s stomach.

Wash freezes, eyes flying open, staring over York’s shoulder at the peeling paint of the wall. York’s other arm is wrapped around Wash’s back, holding him firmly in place. “So, Agent Washington,” says York, voice as cold and sharp as the knife. “Why don’t you tell us why you’re really here?”

Wash doesn’t have much leverage but he tries to push away all the same, if he can just get to a knife… But York is holding him with a steely grip far stronger than his wiry frame should be capable of. “I told you,” Wash says, “I was looking for you –”

“Well, you found us.” York’s voice is calm, flat, mechanical, and hairs rise on the back of Wash’s neck. Distantly he wonders if he would see a glint of green if he looked in York’s eyes. “Why were you looking? We can tell if you lie.”

The desire to lie is desperate, tell him something, tell him _anything_ , but words die in Wash’s throat. “I was authorized to retrieve your armor and the AI unit Delta,” he manages, throat constricted.

York hisses and his grip tightens, fingers digging into Wash’s back, the knife pressing into Wash’s stomach hard enough to break skin; there’s a bright prick of pain, and then a warm trickle down his skin. “Authorized by who?” York’s voice is harsh in Wash’s ear, his breath shaking.

“Malcom Hargrove.” Wash swallows hard, the sound loud and wet in his own ears.

Headbutt him, Wash tells himself. Struggle. Fight. Do _something._ York’s in deteriorated physical condition, you’ll win, just grab the damn knife –

But Wash can’t get himself to move.

“If we let you go,” says York, “will you return to him?”

It’s not a question. Wash closes his eyes. “Yes.”

York plunges the knife into Wash’s stomach.

Wash jerks, pain stabbing through him so thoroughly he’s sure the knife is coming out his spine. He gasps and tries to push York away, in an instinctive reaction, but York holds him tight, draws the knife out ( _it hurts it hurts oh god it hurts_ ) and drives it into him again.

He would cry out if he had air in his lungs; dizzy with pain and shock Wash collapses forward, against York’s too-warm body. Wash coughs, and the liquid that spatters from his lips onto York’s shoulder is bright red.

The knife is pulled out, tearing a cry out of Wash with it, and thrown to the floor with a clatter, and then both York’s arms are around him. “I’m sorry,” says York thickly, cradling him, one hand on the back of his head. “I’m sorry, Wash, buddy, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry…”

Dazed, Wash clutches at York, coughs again; the pain is so intense the edges of his vision darken. He can’t get enough air, he can’t breathe, he feels like he’s falling –

“Hey, hey, hey, I got you,” says York, wet cheek pressed to Wash’s. His fingers move through Wash’s hair. “It’s all right, I got you…”

Wash gasps, shaking, sight blurry. His grip on York is failing, but it doesn’t matter, he’s being held fast. “York,” he says, or thinks he says, because he no longer exists outside of the swirling in his own head.

 A kiss, pressed to Wash’s forehead, the only thing he can feel. “It’s all right,” says York, as if from a great distance away. “It’s okay.”

Wash’s last conscious thought is one of relief.


End file.
